Some Things Never Change

Across the Fence #445

I know most people hate dandelions, but the bright yellow color, contrasting against the green grass, makes for a rather colorful, spring appearance. 

I’ve tried for years to keep the amount of dandelions in our yard to a minimum, all to no avail. I’ve used dandelion killers in lawn fertilizer; I’ve sprayed them; I’ve mowed them; I’ve stomped on them; I’ve tried digging them up by the roots… all those methods have been a real waste of time and money. I’ve even tried ignoring them, thinking they’ll magically disappear. They don’t. I’ve told friends who make dandelion wine, to come and harvest all they want!! They declined the invitation. If I could grow flowers like I can grow dandelions, I could quit my day job and go into the flower business.

When we lived in Madison, I tried my best to keep our small yard looking green. When you have neighbors all around you, they don’t appreciate your dandelions invading their manicured yards. Unfortunately, one neighbor whose lawn was right next to ours, didn’t do anything about their dandelions. No matter how much I tried to keep our yard looking green, it was always decorated with yellow in the spring. Every time their dandelions were in full bloom, it didn’t matter which way the wind was blowing, the little white puffs became airborne and made pinpoint landings in our yard. 

I found out that dandelions have quite a history. Did you know that dandelions were introduced from Europe and have been used as a potherb and medicinal plant since Roman times? See, during all that time, nobody’s been able to destroy them so I don’t feel so bad that my attempts to eradicate them have been a failure too! They have a high vitamin and mineral content. Mature leaves are dried and used to make a mild tea. Roots can be used to make stronger tea, or dried and used for various medicinal purposes. And all this time, I’ve been digging up those roots and just throwing them away! Dandelion leaves are used in salads, and of course we’ve all heard of dandelion wine. Have any of you ever brewed or tasted the wine?

As you can see, a plant that gets such a negative reaction has a lot of positive attributes too! 

Now that we live in the country, we have a much bigger yard and a lot more dandelions. At least I don’t have to worry about any next-door neighbors getting irritated because I have a dandelion that went to seed and blew into their yard. They do blow into the corn fields and hay fields, but they already have nice crops of dandelions so I don’t think a few more will bother that much. 

After the strong winds that blew through here a couple nights ago, we now have a nice assortment of chopped up corn stalks on our yard. I didn’t bother to rake them up. That would have taken hours. I just chopped them into smaller pieces with the lawn mower and now they can help nurture the dandelions. It makes for a rather colorful lawn. Yellow dandelions, dull yellow dried corn stubble, and patches of green grass scattered throughout the mix. Actually our lawn is thriving with all the rain we’ve had this spring. It’s a good thing I didn’t fertilize or I’d really be in trouble. There’s no way I’m going to mow twice a week. Have you noticed how much money it takes to fill up that little two-gallon gas can these days? That’s an Uff da. 

I have a John Deere riding mower now and it still takes almost an hour and a half to mow everything. I don’t think I’ll go back to the old push mower. It would take me all day, but at least I’d get a lot of exercise. I still know how to use one.

When we lived in Madison our lawn wasn’t that big. I could mow it in forty-five minutes with our power mower, but it finally gave up the ghost one day. I tried fixing it, but it was terminal, so I went shopping for a new one. When I shop, the first thing I look at is the price tag. Even the smallest ones were not that cheap! Then I spotted a push mower! You know, the type without a motor. Yes, they still make them… for people like me. I checked the price tag. Under $80, that was more like it. I told the young salesman I’d like one of those. He looked at me like I was nuts. 

“Are you sure you want that one, you have to push it,” he said. “It doesn’t have a motor!”

“I know,” I said. “I used one of those long before you were born. It worked then and I imagine I can still remember how to push it!”

He looked at me like I didn’t have a brain in my head. Actually, a lot of neighbors thought I was nuts too. But I had fun pushing my motor-less mower, quietly around the yard and driving the neighbors nuts, thinking I was going to drop over from a heart attack.

Now I sit on my riding mower as I cut the grass, but we still have a wonderful crop of dandelions. Some things never change!

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Korean Veterans Are Not Forgotten

Across the Fence #444

This Memorial Day, a small percentage of Americans will attend programs and parades to remember those veterans who are no longer with us, especially those who gave their lives fighting for their country.

Too often they’re just names on a memorial or tombstone. We don’t know anything about their short lives. I’d like to tell you about one of those heroes.

Pfc Ernest Simonson

Ernest Vilas Simonson was born on October 27, 1928 near Viroqua, Wisconsin. He was raised on a farm west of Viroqua, located along Highway 56. His family later moved to Viroqua where he attended high school. He loved fishing in the local creeks along the Bad Axe River. After they moved to town, he helped the Gerhard Birkelo family as a farmhand. At the time, a young teacher who taught at the Sag City country school, also lived at the Birkelo’s. One evening while they were eating supper, Ernie asked her if she would go to a comedy movie with him at the Temple Theatre in Viroqua. She accepted. He was going to buy them each a bag of popcorn, but she thought it was too much money, so they shared one instead. She said later that he was a real gentleman. Others said he was easy going and had a nice personality. 

In 1948 he enlisted in the army and spent time in Japan with the occupation troops. He received a hardship discharge in May, 1950. Six months later he was recalled when the Korean War began. His sister, Beverly Aspenson, who lives in Westby, remembers the day the family took him to the train station in La Crosse. It was a very difficult and sad time for all of them, knowing he was headed off to war. It was the last time they saw him.

He soon found himself on a troop ship headed for Korea as a member of K Company, 3rd Battalion., 9th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division. On January 29, 1951, he wrote the following (edited) letter to Beverly.

“Dearest Sis, Received your most welcome letter yesterday. I just heated up some water and took a bath and shave. Of course it was a chilly job. Sure feel better. It’s rather nice out today. I’ve got a chest cold now. Some of the boys went out and butchered a young heifer yesterday. The mess hall is going to fix it up so we’ll really eat good today.

“Yes, I bet you are lonesome now. I am too. I’m a couple hundred miles from Puson and I think 30 or 40 miles south of Wonju. I’ve been up around Wonju and Check Chon. I was on the front lines, but never did get into a fight.

“Sure wish I would get some packages. Hope you all are sending some. I sure like candy now. Never used to like it at home. I’d like to have some Planter’s Peanuts too. I don’t need cigarettes. I can always get them one way or the other.”

The next day he continued the letter. “I will tell you about my good deed from yesterday. I was here at the CP and I was mad at everything. So I took a little walk to cool off. About 200 yards from here I found a little Korean girl about 10 years old. Well she couldn’t walk. She was crawling along backwards. She was half froze and half starved. The cruelty of war sure causes the innocent to suffer. She was in pain. Well all I could do was to carry her back here to the CP. I got some C-rations and fed her. I don’t think she’ll live without medical care and I doubt if she’ll ever walk again.

When are you going to send some pictures? What’s the new songs out now? Hit parade or hillbilly? Signing off for now. Much love as always, Ernie.”

Fourteen days later, on February 12, 1951, Ernie was captured when the 2nd Division suffered severe losses during the Massacre at Hoengsong. They were attacked by more than 25,000 Chinese and North Korean troops.

Robert Dyer of Fresno, California was also captured. After his release from a POW camp, he wrote a letter to the family of their friend, Francis Stutlien from Wisconsin, and told about their capture and imprisonment. After being captured they were marched for 47 days to what was called the Bean POW Camp, because that’s about all they got to eat. They arrived April 1st. Many men died or were killed during the march. By the time they reached the camp most were very weak and sick. Malnutrition, dysentery, beatings by the guards, and death were a daily occurrence. Stutlien died on April 24th.

On May 25, 1951, 102 days after being captured, Ernest Simonson died from dysentery and starvation at the age of 22. After that battle in February, his family received notice that he was Missing In Action as of February 12, 1951. From that time until August, 1953, his family, and the girl he hoped would wait for him, didn’t know if he was alive or dead. That’s when they finally received notice that he had died in captivity. In 1955 his body was recovered and returned to Wisconsin where he was buried with military honors in the Viroqua Cemetery.

This Memorial Day, I’d like us all to take a moment and remember all those who lost their lives in Korea, and all the other wars we’ve been involved in. Like Ernie, so many lost lives and lost potential. They are not forgotten.

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Hothead Sven Remembers Norway's Civil War

Across the Fence #443 (Syttende Mai Extra)

This story about the Ornes (Urnes) family and Hothead Sven is an excerpt from the “Hothead Sven Saga,” a historical fiction story I’m writing about these early ancestors. 

Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers through his thinning hair. His bloodshot eyes peered up at the bar-covered window in his small, dark cell. The first light of dawn was visible behind the mountains that rose high above Hauklandstølen. A few lights dotted the landscape as the residents of Moi began to stir and prepare for the day many had dreaded to see arrive.

Sven turned away from the lights and retreated into the darkness of the room. The thick log walls and heavy wood door captured the chill of early autumn and the small room was cold and damp. His large body shivered as a chill shot through it. They would come to get him as soon as the sun appeared over the mountains.  

A wave of despair swept over him and he sank slowly onto the straw-covered, wood bed along one side of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his large hands as tears rolled down his weathered face and disappeared in his bushy, gray beard.

Sleep had not been possible this night as he thought about his life and what awaited him at dawn. He didn’t want to die. He lay back on the hard bed and covered his eyes with his large, muscular forearm, trying to block out the light of the coming dawn and the fate that awaited him. 

Me in the same jail where Hothead Sven was held, wearing the handcuffs he once wore.

His thoughts drifted back to younger, happier days when he roamed the hills and mountains surrounding their small farm at Skåland, and later at Steinberg, in southwestern Norway. The mountains rose up from the waters edge on the west and east. He wished he could see that beautiful lake again, where his father had taught him how to handle a boat and fish. A stone-lined path from the Skjerpe farm went up into those mountains where the Østrem and Mageland farms were located. To the south the lake narrowed before joining the sea on the southern coast of Norway. 

Sven Pedersen Skåland was born in 1575, the oldest son of Peder Atlaksen Steinberg and Berete Iversdatter Skåland. Their small farm, just south of Moi, was located near the shore of Skålandsvika, a small inlet that emptied into Lundevatnet, one of the largest lakes in the area. In earlier days, Sven’s ancestors had pushed their Viking boats into the water at Skålandsvika, waved goodbye to their families, and sailed the fifteen miles downstream to where it emptied into the sea near Flekkefjord.

  

When Sven was a young boy he sat and listened in wide-eyed wonder as the old men told tales of Viking exploits that had been passed down from generation to generation. Each telling of the tales became grander, in direct proportion to the amount of ale that had been consumed. 

Sven could still see and hear his grandfather, Atlak Steinberg, as he sat on the heavy bench by the old wood table in their small house and told the stories on long winter nights.

Grandfather Atlak leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. Strands from his long, shaggy beard fell into his large ale bowl in front of him. The bowl with dragon heads had been hand carved by Atlak’s grandfather, Ståle. Atlak used the dragons as handles when he drank from the old ale bowl. He pushed the bowl out of the way and ran his fingers through his soggy beard, then licked the ale from his fingers. A slight smile creased his lips. “No sense in wasting good ale,” he said. “Now, did I ever tell you about old Gaut One-Eye’s family?”

Before anyone could protest and say they had heard it at least a hundred times before, Atlak began the story again. Sven’s father, Peder, rolled his eyes, leaned back against the log wall, and crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “Here we go again.” Young Sven listened intently to his every word, even though he’d heard many of the stories before. 

“This story was told to me by my father and he heard it from his father before him. It took place a long time ago when our grandfathers were still sailing in Viking ships and took part in the Great Civil War of Norway between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers.”

The death of King Sigurd ‘The Crusader’ in 1130 set off the war. It lasted 110 years until 1240. There was fighting among many different groups and chieftains wanting control of Norway. During that time the clergy of the Catholic Church sided with the Aristocracy and together they ruthlessly gained control over lesser kings, chieftains, and their followers.”

The Church took much control of the country when they introduced a mandatory tax called ‘Peter’s Pence’. People who couldn’t pay lost their property. By 1500, only 100 years ago, the Catholic Church owned nearly half the land in Norway.”

Atlak continued his story. “Our Grandfather, Gaut of Ornes allied himself with King Magnus Erlingson and the Church, and became one of the most powerful families in Norway at the time. The Ornes family was also known as Urnes. The Urnes Stave Church had been built by them on their farm. Gaut also owned land at Mel and Ænes. We’ll forgive him now for siding with the rich folks. His grandsons would eventually see the light and join the Birkebeiners.”

Gaut’s son, Jon Gautsson, the father of Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson, became the skipper of King Magnus’ ship. He led the King’s army into battle with King Magnus fighting by his side.”

Fed up with the Aristocracy and Church taking their property, plus higher and higher taxes, a group was organized by the farmers and common people and led by Sverre Sigurdsson Prest. They were called the ‘Birkebeiner’, which means ‘Birchlegs’, because they were sometimes forced to wrap their feet in birch bark for want of shoes. It’s against this group that Grandfather Jon Gautsson fought, as he led King Magnus Erlingson’s forces.” 

There’s a story that Sverre is also our grandfather that involves an illegitimate granddaughter of King Håkon Håkonson, but that’s a story for another day.”

Peder shook his head and relit his pipe as his father rambled on, often getting sidetracked on another story, much like a ship sailing up a tributary of the main fjord and then having to backtrack to get on course again. But regardless of his story wandering all over the place, Sven knew Grandfather Atlak was coming to the exciting part of the story. As he sat on the floor near his grandfather, he leaned forward to catch his every word. 

Atlak continued. “On the 15th day of June, 1184, King Magnus, along with Grandfather Jon Gautsson, led twenty-four ships and 3,000 men against King Sverre and his Birkebeiners, who had fourteen ships and 2,000 men. Jon’s brother, Munan Gautsson, also commanded a ship in the battle. They met in a great battle at Fimreite in Norefjord, a narrow arm of the Sognefjord. Stories are told of a fierce battle that began in the afternoon and lasted until midnight.” 

Grandfather Jon had his ship in the lead as they closed with Sverre’s forces. Ships rammed into opposing ships and a fierce fight began. Grandfather led the charge, swinging his great sword as they boarded the Birkebeiner ships. Broad axes were planted in the chests of the enemy as the battle raged. Grandfather was a great warrior and had survived many battles in his day. Many Birkebeiners fell under his mighty blows. The Birkebeiners were also tough and fought hard, and Sverre was a great leader. The tide of battle turned against King Magnus and Grandfather. A Birkebeiner ship came alongside of Grandfathers’ and tied on. A violent battle began as the two ships battled each other with swords, spears and broad axes. Another Birkebeiner ship came along the other side. Now they had to do battle with both crews as the Birchlegs jumped into their ship. Grandfather fought hard, slaying many of the Birchlegs until a sword pierced his chest. He slumped to the deck of the ship. King Magnus realized the battle was lost. Rather than suffer the humiliation of being captured and tortured, he jumped overboard so that he might enter the halls of Valhalla as a fighter. The coat of mail he wore pulled him under and he drowned. He was only eight and twenty years.“

At that point Grandfather Jon struggled to his feet and with his sword, struck a man who was boarding their ship. Grandfather was struck again and the blow knocked him into the water, saving his life. The night was full upon them at that point and it was very dark in the water. As Grandfather struggled to stay above water, another ship almost ran him over. He realized it was one of his own ships and yelled for help. They pulled him from the water and laid him in the boat with the other wounded and dead. With their King and leader dead, along with many of their fellow warriors, they gave up the fight. What was left of their force broke contact and retreated. Many great warriors entered the halls of Valhalla that day, including grandfather’s brother, Munan. Twenty-one hundred and sixty men, nearly half of the 5,000 men who took part in the battle died that day. It’s said that if you sit on the shores of the Sognfjord at midnight, when the wind sweeps down the fjord, you can still hear the long mournful moans of all the men who died in the battle that night.”

Atlak leaned back, let out a big sigh, and lifted his ale bowl to his lips. He took a long drink, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and continued his story. 

“It was thought that Grandfather Jon also perished in the fighting, but he was taken home severely wounded and prepared to die. But he was tough and after many days of suffering he began to get stronger and survived. That was good for us Sven, or we wouldn’t be here. His son, Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson was born three years later.”

After the defeat and death of King Magnus, Sverre became King of Norway. Before that time, the Ænes family had been living at Ornes for centuries. They were a powerful Chieftain family, but, because they had been supporting the forces opposed to Sverre and his Birkebeiners, they lost their land at Ornes. Jon and the rest of his family moved farther south to Mel and Ænes, property also owned by their family.”

King Sverre knew he needed the support of the powerful Ornes families if he wanted to keep control of Norway. The war was still going on as pockets of resistance from the Church and their rich friends continued to fight against him. He allowed the Ornes family to keep their property at Mel and Ænes and invited them to join him as Birkebeiners.”

Atlak stopped and took another drink of ale.

“Peder said, “Father, you fill Sven with such wild tales, he won’t know what to believe. If we were descended from nobility would we be living like this, barely able to raise enough food among the damn rocks on these mountains to keep ourselves fed? What kind of bullshit is this you teach him? I teach him how to farm and fish. At least that will put food in his mouth. You fill him with nothing but words and stories that have nothing to do with us today. It’s all in the past and should be left there. We have no need for it.”

Atlak rose from his seat and straightened his bent, frail body as best he could. Pointing a bony finger at his son, he admonished him. “That’s no way to speak to your father! Bullshit you say! Lies you say! Are you calling your grandfathers liars too? Your own grandfathers, whose blood flows through your body and gives you life. These Sagas have been passed down from generation to generation. Thank the gods that Sven is interested in the stories.”

“The stories cause nothing but trouble,” Peder said. He pointed at Sven. “Look at him. He sits there in wide-eyed wonder as you spin your tales of the Sagas as skillfully as a spider weaves his web. You draw him in and he gets caught in that web. Mark my words, it will only lead to more trouble. Sven almost killed one of his friends playing war games because of the damn stories you tell.”

“Father, I was just protecting myself,” Sven protested.

“At least Sven’s not afraid to stand up for himself,” Atlak said. “Nobody’s going to push him around. Too bad you didn’t have some of his fire. Maybe if you did, you’d have a farm that produced more than rocks!”

Peder’s face turned red as he clenched his fists. He wanted to lash out and strike his old father, but he didn’t say a word. He rose quickly from his chair and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. ‘Damn you,’ he thought as he headed up a mountain trail to cool off. ‘Age hasn’t softened his edges at all. There’s no sense trying to argue or reason with him. Everything’s always been his way and he becomes angry if anyone disagrees. Now I worry that Sven is just like his grandfather. He has that same explosive temper. That temper and all those damn stories about fighting and war are going to lead to nothing but trouble.”

As Sven sat alone in the jail at Moi, waiting for dawn to arrive, he remembered how his father and grandfather had argued. It was true that the stories of the fighting between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers had made an impression on him and had fueled his imagination. In that imaginary world Sven was fighting alongside Sverre as one of the Birkebeiners. 

He remembered the day he had stood on the shores of the Norfjord where his ancestors had fought in the great battle that was the turning point of the Norwegian Civil War. He was certain he’d heard the mournful moans of the dead in the wind. He wished he were back there again. 

Unfortunately, he would never see it again. “Hothead” Sven now sat waiting for the dawn to arrive. He would soon be joining his ancestors.

Visit me in the Heritage Tent at Westby Syttende Mai on May 18th and 19th. Maybe I’ll tell you what happened to Hothead Sven.

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Listen for the Moen "Bells for Peace"

Across the Fence #443

It’s that time of year when those of us with Norwegian roots, celebrate our Norwegian heritage. On this Syttende Mai, I thought I’d tell you about the Moen “Bells for Peace.”

When you watch the winter Olympic games on TV and hear what sounds like cowbells ringing, do you know where those bells come from? I’m proud to say a relative in Norway made most of those bells!

When our Norwegian relatives, Arne Olav and Vivi Østrem, visited us a few years before we went to Norway, they brought us some Moen Bells as gifts. We have our sheep bell near our front door and our clock bell sits in my home office. They are cherished because we know their history.

Tobias Osmundsen Moen, Vivi’s grandfather, started the Moen Bell Factory at Moi, Norway in 1922. Tobias had a son, Osmund, and a daughter, Esther, who is Vivi’s mother. The Moen family is related to us on the Sherpe (Skjerpe) side. 

Osmund now runs the Moen Bell Factory, along with his family. They have been making bells for 91 years. Bells are needed in Norway so the farmers can find their animals in the country’s hard-to-reach mountains and valleys. Originally made to be worn by animals, mainly the sheep, goats, and cows, the bells have gradually become adopted as “cheering bells” at sporting events. 

Moen Bells were extremely popular as the official bells at the 1994 Lillehammer Winter Olympics. Crowds of spectators rang bells to cheer on the ski racers. The bell ringing motivates the athletes and adds to the spectator’s fun. If you’ve watched the Winter Olympics since 1994, you may remember the sound of spectators ringing bells. Those were Moen Bells.

The Moen Bell Factory was asked to produce 220,000 bells for the 1994 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer. That was quite an accomplishment for the small factory in Moi that had been making bells for animals to wear before that time. 

During our trip to Norway in 1999, Linda and I had the chance to visit the Moen Bjøllefabrikk (Bell Factory) in Moi. Vivi and Arne Olav took us there to meet her uncle and see how the bells are made.

We were fortunate that we were able to meet Osmund because he had a bad accident two months before our visit. On February 6, 1999, he was working in the forest in the mountains above their home with his tractor when it slid and rolled 150 feet down a rocky hillside. He was thrown through the front glass of the cab and the tractor rolled over him. It’s a miracle that he’s still alive! He was hospitalized with injuries, but appeared in good shape when we visited him. 

People said, “He has more work to do. It was not his time to leave this world yet.” No one could understand how he had survived. We saw the mangled John Deere tractor at his home when we were there and it was hard to believe that he wasn’t killed. 

Since our visit, those bells have gone from the mountains of Norway to sporting events around the world. They were produced for the Olympic Games in Japan, but it wasn’t known how bells would go over in Japan so they hadn’t placed a large order. They sold out the first day and the organizers called Osmund to see if they could get more bells. They worked night and day and shipped more bells that arrived on the next to last day of the games. They also sold out immediately!

They are now made for many sporting events, including: World Alpine Championships, soccer games, Grand National Rodeo, and many other events worldwide. The U.S. Ski Team has also adopted Moen Bells as their official “cheering bell.”

While we were at the factory, they were busy producing bells for the 2002 Winter Olympic Games in Salt Lake City. They had orders for 300,000 bells. That’s a lot of bells to produce! 

Osmund showed us how the bells are made and engraved. They are cut from iron sheets, formed, the handle and bell soldered on, and then coated with brass that is recycled from spent ammunition cartridges from Norwegian military practice ranges. Osmund calls his bells coated with melted down bullets, “Bells for Peace.”

After the bells reach this stage, they’re engraved by a machine that does several bells at a time. The designs and imprinting are computer generated of course! While we watched, he engraved the Salt Lake City Olympic logo on one side of a bell, and then engraved Howard and Linda Skjerpe (the original Norwegian spelling of the Sherpe name) on the other side, and presented it to us. 

It was a real pleasure meeting Osmund and getting a tour of the bell factory.  He has developed a very successful international business and the name, Moen Bells, is becoming known around the world. 

Now when you hear bells ringing during the next Winter Olympic games, or any sporting event, you can tell people you know all about those bells. They are “Bells for Peace” and come from the little town of Moi, nestled at the base of the mountains in southwestern Norway.

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Richard "Dick" Brockman

Across the Fence #442

Richard "Dick" Brockman, age 65, died April 22, 2013 at his home in Platteville, Wisconsin, after a long battle with cancer. He was Linda’s second cousin. I owe Dick a lot. If it wasn’t for him, there would have been no “Across the Fence” column for these past “almost” ten years.

Dick’s family owned and published The Platteville Journal for 70 years. Dick was associated with the paper since he was five years old, and purchased it from his parents in 1971, shortly after graduating from UW-Platteville. He sold it to the Morris Newspaper Corporation of Wisconsin in 2003. 

Then in January, 2004, Dick wrote to tell us he and his wife, Kathy, were getting back into the newspaper business. 

He said, “I thought I would drop you a note and let you know that I have purchased another newspaper. I’m closing today on the purchase of the Linn Newsletter (circulation 2,500) in Central City, Iowa. I will be over there one or two days a week. It’s a lot of work running businesses in two states, but I’m excited about it. I guess printer’s ink really does replace the blood in your veins.”

We always enjoyed Dick’s weekly column “The Gospel According to Eddie Tor.” He was a wonderful writer with a great sense of humor. I would comment on his stories and send him things I had written too.

For Veteran’s Day, 2004, I wrote a story about all the lives lost to war over the years, lost lives, lost potential. Dick was one of the people who received my writings and would comment on them. That same day, I received this message back from him:

“Hey, Howard, have you ever thought of writing a newspaper column? I own this great paper in Iowa. . . I would love to have a column every week. I’d like to run the Veteran’s Day story you sent today.”

I wrote back, “Dick, funny you should ask. I was just thinking earlier this week, that it would be nice to have an outlet or column in a paper for some of the many things I write. I love writing. I would love to write for your paper! I’ll try not to write things that offend people, or that are overly political one way or another. I’ll leave my politics out of it, although I’m sure there are people who will be offended by what I say about war and killing in my Veteran’s Day story. It’s meant to make people think, but some people have a hard time thinking!”

Dick wrote back, “Don’t worry too much about having a differing viewpoint. That’s one thing I really enjoy about your writing. I don’t always agree with you, just as you don’t always agree with me, but that’s healthy. I especially enjoy your viewpoint on Vietnam because you were there. . .you walked the walk. . .and that’s important to me. If a few people are offended, so what! Just keep on writing the way you do now. You are great about telling things from the heart and that is good.”

Thus, the journey began and “Across the Fence” was born. 

Dick and his wife, Kathy, were there to help when Linda’s parents, Dale and Virginia Bartling, who lived in Platteville, were having health problems. Dick told us that if he could help by getting them to doctor’s appointments, we should let him know. Dale was his first cousin. When both of them ended up in an assisted living facility in Platteville, Dick picked up their newspaper each morning and took it to them, until Dale was able to return home.

Dick and Kathy were there for us every day, when Linda’s mother was in her final days at the hospital and we were spending long days with her. They came to visit every day and brought food to the house for the family. They were caring, compassionate and concerned for others. Qualities that are often in short supply in this “What’s in it for me?” world.

Dick had a great respect for veterans. He once wrote to me, “I hope the years have brought some peace in your mind about what you went through in the war. Those of us who were not there, will never be able to understand the emotions and feelings of those who were there.”

What I went through in Vietnam couldn’t hold a candle to the battle and pain that Dick went through as he fought to beat the cancer that attacked him these past several years. He was a gentle, quiet man, but a real fighter. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. How true that was in Dick’s case. He knew how to wield a pen and use words to make people think, and that sometimes made people uncomfortable. He said to me, “I think some of your best columns are the ones that some might call controversial, because they make people think. People may disagree with what we write, but they should respect our opinions, just as we should respect theirs. We are not a great country because we all agree, but because we honor the right to disagree.” 

Those words say so eloquently, who Dick was and what he stood for. He lived by those words. Even in death his actions and words live on. We can all be better people if we take his words to heart. 

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